


all i want in this world is to not be alone

by kenzily



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anorexia, Coming Out, Depression, Eating Disorders, Jealousy, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, i want to die lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25922860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenzily/pseuds/kenzily
Summary: based on a true storyno it's like actually a true story HAHAHA
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. addiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: self harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol suck it emotions ...

Everything is going to be ok. 

She often spent the night staring into nothing, listening to the tick of the clock. Her days dragged on, measured like a grain of sand falling from the hourglass. But every night, hours after the sunset and everyone had gone to bed, she stared at the small pen knife. Fidgeting, turning it over in her hand, and knowing if she was discovered it was over. If it wasn't enough that she was cutting, the blade was rusted over and dirtied from crayon shavings. A box cutter. Not a razor or a knife, but a simple box cutter that you'd find in any stationary store. (the sight of it years later would send her into a trance, longing, panicking, triggered)

As the clock ticked and seconds fell away from the night, the desire, a nagging urge to cut took over her mind. 11 years old. An 11 year old stumbled upon self harm images on the internet. Arms, nearly mutilated. It wasn't long before her arm resembled the ones online. Thick red lines, marring a pale arm. She'd slammed her laptop shut in fear, and reopened the tab nearly a minute later, intrigued, interested, _scared._

Imagining, her wrist bare, a straight line on the center of her wrist, crossing over previous cuts. Imagine, the stream of blood that would flow out of the cut. Imagine- how beautiful it would be.

 _"You just do it for attention"_ Horizontal for attention, vertical for results. She didn't care. Vertical meant dragging the blade up from the wrist. Bringing the choking feeling back, bringing it closer to her. Horizontal was away, away from the world, away from the cotton and the muted buzzing and the voices crooning to her. The voices were never quite nice. 

And admit it, it looked prettier horizontal. She liked feeling pretty. She never really felt pretty anymore.

Hushed whispers spoke to her, soothingly, convincingly, telling her how much better she would feel, if she relieved the pressure. If she cut. 

It was no longer new to her. As the world washed away, nothing present but the sting and the blood, too much blood. 

But a cut a day was never enough, it hadn't been enough since the first day she started. One, two, five, ten, more, as she resorted to wearing hoodies more and more often to school, shoving her hands in her pockets during conversations and never wearing shorts. 

It became like a drug to her. _Break the cycle,_ some would say, _you can quit,_ but she couldn't. Addicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh i get so freaked out whenever i see box cutters now they scare me so much


	2. solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of self-harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate this chapter so much and just literally structurally and description wise it sucks but im crying rn so

Rivulets. She was entranced. It was wrong, all wrong, she knew. Yet she couldn't look away, couldn't stop. Lines. Beautiful, horrifying. Lines, littering her left arm and thighs. Dark red and scarring over, unhealed and grotesque.

She felt alive, so alive. The haze surrounding her mind lifted. Her mind, always blurry, overwhelming with thoughts of self hatred. The sting which helped her to remember that she was present.

  


_Sharp._

  


A rusty pen knife, the metal tip of a tape dispenser, a razor blade, a pair of teal scissors. Blades. All sorts of blades. Some new, gleaming under the warm light of the lamp, some tinted and stained a red hue. For when they had cut too deep and the blood dried as she cried alone.

She couldn't remember the first time she cut. The memories blurred and all she could focus on was the incessant buzzing in her head and the voices that pleaded _please oh god please make stop-_ And of course she'd known of self harm before she started herself. Everyone knew. She read about it too, because it helped her to cope. Stories with happy endings. Stories where the mentally ill character, struggling to keep their head above (was that her?) is swept off their feet by an all-knowing, all-loving emotional support lover and whisked away to a utopia where all their struggles dissipate. Not all hope is lost.

July 29th, 2018. As the clock struck midnight, she picked up her pen knife. Pen knife? Box cutter? Razor knife? Bought from some cheap Japanese store, squirreled away from the kitchen into the confines of her drawers, hidden along the long sleeve shirts and sweaters. She slid it over her skin, leaving a clean line on her left wrist. The sting bloomed, droplets of blood drawn, and a semi audible gasp escaped. Too deep. Nothing else could be heard besides her labored breathing and the ticking of the plastic clock. She grasped her hand tightly.

The sting... was livening. She welcomed the pain.

Stress. The sinking feeling in her stomach she couldn't place, the constant fidgeting of her hands, the crying silently alone on the tile of her bathroom floor. Her mind filled with cotton, buzzing that made her head pound and vision spin. She felt stifled. Nothing but the pain. The pain enraptured her, bleeding out the feeling. Bloodletting for emotions.

It became her little secret, her habit. Late night solace.


	3. ruination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She couldn't breathe. She felt like she was suffocating. It would be better just to end it all... 
> 
> Would anyone care? Would anyone notice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 4 am and i just finished crying on my bathroom floor lol

"I’m here to save you, I’m here to ruin you. You called me, see? I’m so sweet. Follow the sound of the pipe ~I’m takin’ over you. I’m takin’ over you”

Her breath was ragged. The world swirled around her as her vision blurred and the pounding of her head made it seem as though the world was caving in. She needed to escape. Her skin was crawling, and it all felt like too much, too much pressure, too many stares of people who existed only in her imagination. She clawed at her skin, leaving angry welts, scratching until her skin was raw- but _**oh**_ it wasn't enough, she couldn't bear it. The floor felt icy to her touch as she shivered from her core. Uncaring. She gripped her wrist, tight enough to leave a bruise and hard enough to feel the pain.  
She couldn't breathe, suffocating, choking on her emotions and tears and pleas for help left unsaid. Would it would be better just to end it all? 

Would anyone care? Would anyone notice? 

Insignificant in the bigger picture. 

She couldn't do it anymore

She was alone and it was silent. The clock's battery lay dead and her breathing stilled. No one around, no one awake, no one who cared.

Alone.

She was alone again, a wreck. She broke.  
And this time, it brought about her ruination.


	4. do better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "you're not thin enough. not trying hard enough, worthless. ugly. overweight. undesirable. unwanted." Be better at having a mental illness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaha ur girl finally admitted to herself she has an eating disorder it's been 4 years get over yourslef

Scrolling through pro-ana tags on Tumblr late at night. But she didn't have an eating disorder? She looked healthy, she looked fit, she was an athlete, she looked happy, she looked _fine._ Having an eating disorder isn't always constantly working out or starving yourself for days with only the customary sips of water. Sometimes, it's a voice in your head telling you that you're ugly, you're fat, you're worthless, trying desperately to restrict your intake and crying through the night when you've exceeded it. She'd known anorexia before she knew depression, a year before it all started. She'd hated her body ever since 2nd grade but she'd never thought about her weight before the words, the invisible stares, the doctor's visit. 

_A year later_

So maybe she did have an eating disorder. She crunched on ice in lieu of breakfast and replaced meals with sleep. Carving lines into her arms and thighs that she hated the sight of, she cried quietly into the early hours of the morning, stomach pangs of a starved child. Thighs. Thigh gap. Jawline. Don't eat cheese. Don't eat bread. Don't eat protein bars. Don't eat any snacks, ever. Don't accept food from other people. Holding her knees to her chest and praying for it all to end after she ate lunch for the first time in a week. Never add sugar to anything. Drink only water or green tea. Stare at yourself in the mirror for a hour or maybe a few. Brush your teeth once or twice or however many times you have to until you loose your appetite in total. Do sit ups on the unforgiving wood floor under you nearly pass out. Have a thigh gap. Be thinner. Be prettier. Be better. Be better at having an eating disorder. She never reached out for help, never said anything to indicate she was anything less of okay. Scared, embarrassed, and struggling to keep her head afloat. _"you're not thin enough. not trying hard enough, worthless. ugly. overweight. undesirable. unwanted."_ Be **better** at having a mental illness.


	5. help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fuck that. i do want to kill myself. i want to die. i want to slit my wrists and bleed all over the glossy white tile of my bathroom. i want to overdose on pills and not wake up. i just don't want to be alive. i'm too tired for this and too overwhelmed and too stressed for this but not too young for this

fuck that. i do want to kill myself. i want to die. i want to slit my wrists and bleed all over the glossy white tile of my bathroom. i want to overdose on pills and not wake up. i just don't want to be alive. i'm too tired for this and too overwhelmed and too stressed for this but not too young for this

The yelling had always been there. The threats of hitting her loomed over her head. She took comfort in pretending like her parents weren't like that ever since she was young. What a cruel thing to do a little kid. Make her scared of the two people that were supposed to be the ones to shield her from the harsh realities of the world. Even worse. Make her believe she deserves all of it. All the words, the insults, the threats, the guilt trips, the screams, the crying. 

At age 9 she found anorexia 

At age 10 she began to be bullied for being asian

At age 11 she lost her house, classmate, neighbors, friends, to the mudslides

At age 12 her parents found out her self harm

At age 13 she was officially diagnosed with depression and "attempted" for the first

At age 14 nothing had changed

She still wanted to die. Buried deep under practiced smiles and forced cheerfulness, the voices were always there. If you looked beyond the double exclamation marks and lighthearted tone, you might find that she wasn't so much like the straight A, magazine writer, city council member, competitive athlete, girl others so desperately wanted to believe she was. 

She'd just turned 11 when January 9th happened and it wasn't until a year later until she knew it - and rain, had become her trigger. In some ways, it's easier to blame on her problems on January 9th because that's when it all started going wrong. She was 11 when she started cutting. She was 12 when she first attempted. She still refutes it, since it never even went anywhere. It didn't count. She was too young to know how to die, but the intent was there. She meant to kill herself. She was 12 when she talked her way out of a one way ticket to a mental hospital and an outpatient program afterwards. Too easy. They'd never cared that much anyways. As long as she promised she was ok and kept up the image of perfection, no action was taken. It'd been years since they'd last told her she was doing a good job. It wasn't worth it. the good, the sad, the happy, but all she knew was _cold._

**Author's Note:**

> if you didn't know, this fic is like a year behind my life im trying to catch up everything bc somehow i literally forget everything even like traumatic events and i want this to be kinda accurate to my life haha


End file.
